Page 34 of The Billionaire's Second Chance
Whenever I want,I typed. I hit send.
Wherever I want.
The bubbles were back.
Fuck, Sami.
“So?” Tally said. “He’s doing well?”
Give me some advance warning next time, fuck, I have a meeting with potential investors in five minutes, they’ll think I a huge creep if I’m hard at my desk.
“Yes,” I said, tucking my phone away in my purse again with a smile. “He’s doing great.”
“Good for him,” she said.
Better for me, I thought.
“I think it’s sweet he’s doing all this for the school. It didn’t surprise me–he’s so good with Maddie,” Tally continued, “and shelovesher Uncle Charlie–but you know he’swell-off, even by our standards. He could just live off his inheritance and spend every day on the tennis court and every night boozing at galas.”
“Because that’s exactly what you would do, in his position?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at my friend. Like me, Tally loved her job; she would never dream of frittering away her time on the tennis courts.
“Well, of course not,” she said. “But you know what I mean. If I had the Martin money and a billion-dollar tech unicorn to run, I sure as hell wouldn’t be spending my time teaching computer lessons to school children.”
I laughed. “It’s just fundraising, not teaching lessons. God, can you imagine?”
“Oh,” Tally said. “He didn’t tell you?” I shook my head. “He quite literallyisteaching lessons. Every Friday he knocks off early and goes to teach elementary schoolers how to code. I only know because Ryan has been leaving the office early too. He’s always at home now when I come to pick up Maddie on Fridays. He never used to leave before five at the very earliest when he worked for the bank.” She huffed out a laugh. “Him marrying the nanny was the best thing that ever happened to our family, I swear, Sam.” Her expression was thoughtful as she finished the last sip of wine. “If you everdodecide to get married,” she said seriously, “consider marrying a nanny. Or amanny, I think they call it.” I scoffed. Amanny. “Just a suggestion,” she said, collecting her purse and sliding gracefully out from behind the table. I did the same on my side.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said with a wry smile. Amannywould have no use for a trophy wife, at least.
But the only thing I had in mind, after pointing out the line that curved around the block to Tally as we parted ways, was Charlie Martin, hard underneath his desk–or on his ridiculous yoga ball under his work table, rather.
Charlie Martin, heading straight from his meeting with the investors to the school to… teach kids coding classes, of all things.
I slipped into the back of a waiting taxi, giving the driver the familiar address of the agency before settling back against the seat.
I could have Charlie MartinwheneverandwhereverI wanted.
And where I wanted him most wasafter hours, at the Sterling Hotel.
Wasn’t it?
The taxi pulled into traffic, and my stomach lurched.
* * *
A few short hours later, I stepped out of a different taxi, this one idling in front of the school. I was early. I was usually early, of course, but this time, I was early on purpose.
I buzzed myself into the school, heading for the front office.
“Hello,” I said to the pleasant-looking secretary behind the desk. “I’m here meeting Charlie Martin; I’m early. Could you let me know what room he’s teaching in? Samantha Scott,” I added as her eyes scanned over a list, I supposed cross-referencing my name. I hadn’t been here during school hours since I graduated, I realized, not for the fundraising project or for any other purpose, either.
She found what she’d been looking for, apparently. “Upstairs, room 204. The media lab. Welcome back, Ms. Scott.”
“Thank you,” I said, blinking. I stared at her for a moment, wondering if she was familiar–she hadn’t been the secretary when I was a student here, had she?–but she was far too young, probably only in her mid-forties. She probably just knew Charlie and I had been meeting here. The school felt too familiar, but things had changed since I graduated.
Like now, Charlie was a teacher, not a student, I thought as I approached room 204. Media Lab, read the plaque, just below the room number. The door was propped open by a tattered paperback jammed between the door and doorframe, and I stood for a moment, listening to his familiar voice and the sound of clacking keyboards. I pushed it open and entered.
From the front of the classroom, his eyes found mine instantly, widening slightly before settling into a smile. I raised the hand not clutching my leather tote in an acknowledging wave, and he nodded.
